


forgiveness

by hholocene



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Gen, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hholocene/pseuds/hholocene
Summary: Henry wrestles with the truth about his parents and how he feels about them.





	forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time, and I finally managed to wrap it together. I started it in a grief filled daze after the finale, thinking about poor Henry. I'm not totally happy with how this turned out; I realised about half way through it's hard writing for a character we ultimately did not see that much of, so it's tough making his voice authentic. 
> 
> However, I think we all agree there needs to be more Americans fanfic to deal with the loss of no new episodes, so this is my little contribution. This is also not a fic as committed to realism as the show was, I just wanted to play out certain scenarios.
> 
> Finally, an obligatory mention to how outstanding that finale was. May it sweep at the Emmys (wishful, I know).

 

Paige comes to him and tells him the truth. She knew. Their parents told her when she was 16, after she pushed them too. But she wishes they hadn’t. And she hates that she lied to him, but it was better that way. It was too heavy a burden to have.

 

She tells him that mom wanted her to be like them. Get  some job in the state department. She almost listened, she thought maybe it was what she wanted until she realised that she didn’t.

 

She tells him that she was there with them on that last day. She even got on the train to Canada. But then she left before they crossed the border. She didn’t say goodbye, but their parents saw her. She doubts she will ever forget the shock on their faces. What could have even been pain on her mother’s face, she hardly knows what to make of her now. She doesn’t share this last part.

 

She does add, “I don’t think they wanted to leave.”

 

He shrugs at the end, mumbles a despondent _whatever_.

 

“I don’t want to know anything else, Paige.  I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want anything to do with them. I want to forget and move on.”

 

Paige nods, lets him know that she understands.

 

.

  


His first day at college, he watches all the parents with their kids. He tries not to think about them much. He rarely talks to Paige about them.

 

It’s impossible not to remember the day when Paige was moving into her dorms.

 

They were all together. Mom _and_ dad. In those last years, mom always seemed to be away. Big corporate client, his dad always told him. _Bullshit_.

 

But that day, they were all together. And everyone was happy. At least, everyone was smiling. They went to a restaurant afterwards. Dad made jokes, like he did when they were little. Even mom had laughed, before shaking her head at him. It had felt so normal. _Nice_.

 

Tonight, it’s just him and Paige. Stan had left an hour ago, apologising for work pulling him away. It’s not like it would have made a difference if he was here now.

 

He stirs absently at his plate of pasta. Neither of them saying much, both their minds stuck in the past.

 

“I don’t understand how they did it,” he says, breaking the silence.

 

She looks up at him in surprise, waits for him to continue.

 

“I think back to _before_ . Some things were strange then, some seem strange now but there are all these other things that just, they felt _real_. I don’t get it.”

 

She isn’t sure what he wants her to tell him. If anything at all. Then she remembers a promise she made too herself when she got off that train: she would be honest, always.

 

“They lied to us, a lot, but our family was real,” she admits mournfully.

 

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe they cared, but they didn’t care enough.”

 

“I think that,” she mulls over her words carefully. She hasn’t forgiven them but she learned enough to see that they were built differently. Different lives, different priorities.

 

“You don’t blame them for leaving,” Henry says, somewhere between a question and a statement, and his voice small.

 

“I do,” Paige insists. “I think that they should have done things differently.”

 

What exactly, she doesn’t know.

 

.

 

College is a welcome distraction most of the time. When people ask him about his parents, he lies and tells them they died when he was 17. It’s easier than explaining they were undercover KGB spies who were on the run from the FBI.

 

“Do you think they are alive?” he asks Paige once.

 

“I don’t know,” she tells him. “I feel like they would be.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Paige told him before he was better off not knowing. He remembers how sad Paige used to be at the end of high school. All those closed door conversations with mom and dad in her room. Maybe she’s right. It doesn’t stop him from wishing they had told him, so that he could have actually known them.

 

“I think they found a way to make it back. They were good at what they did.”

 

“Did they hurt people?” Henry finds himself asking. “Stan said that there were a lot of people who died at the hands of Soviet agents but he doesn’t know if it was them or not.”

 

“They said they didn’t, but I think sometimes people got hurt.”

 

Henry looks away, afraid to ask any further.

 

“It doesn’t make it right but anything they ever did, they did for their country,” Paige offers. An inexplicable urge to protect their parent’s memory, even as she suspects the worst so often.

 

Henry scoffs, “That’s what Stan said, they were just doing a job.”

 

Paige remembers her father telling Stan that.

 

She wishes he was here now, explaining this to Henry.

 

.

 

It’s in 1993 when a man comes to him.

 

Henry works on Wall Street now. It’s easy to make contact with him. He comes to Henry claiming to represent a prospective client.

 

He finds it odd that they would want to have dinner with a first-year analyst. He realises his mistake when at the end of the dinner, the man slides an envelope across the desk.

 

On it, he reads ‘Henry Jennings’. His skin pales the instant he registers the handwriting.

 

“What is this?” he asks, voice barely hiding his distress.

 

“I was told to give it to you, and this,” he removes what looks like a business card and tosses it on top of the envelope. “If you ever want to get in touch, call this number. Tell them, it’s a good time to invest in pharmaceuticals. They’ll know what to do.”

 

“What?” He’s in disbelief. That his parents were KGB spies always felt more like a foreign fact rather than actual reality. Until now.

 

“It’s a good time to invest in pharmaceuticals, remember that,” the man repeats, as he gets up and puts his coat on.

 

He extends his hand out, looking at Henry expectantly. He stares at it for a long moment. _He should shake it_ , he thinks. It might look suspicious otherwise.

 

“Good pitch, by the way,” the man tells him. “I might know some people who would be interested in doing business.”

 

“No,” Henry immediately states. “I don’t want anything to do with you people.”

 

The man smirks at that.

 

“Suit yourself,” he replies, removing his hand.

 

After he walks out, Henry contemplates leaving the envelope and the business card here. Or taking it out and dumping it in the first trash can he sees.

 

In the end, he takes it home, and puts it in a box in his cupboard.

 

.

 

He goes to bed, restless and unable to sleep.

 

At 2am, he relents and gets out the box.

 

He opens the lid and brings out the envelope in front of him.

 

There is a momentary impulse to set the damned thing on fire.

 

He takes a deep breath. _He can’t do that_.

 

He opens it and unravels the thick wad of papers.

 

There’s a selection of letters. Some from dad. Some from mom. Some signed by them both together. Dated at different points in time.

 

There are repeated pleas that they love him. That they always loved him, and Paige too. They’re sorry for everything. For all the lies and for how they left. They wanted to take him with them, but they knew his future was here. They’re proud of him. So very proud.

 

His father reminds him to always be himself. His mother tells him she wishes she had spent less time away. There’s an ink blot on the paper, and he wonders if she cried. He can’t remember her crying.

 

His fingers brush against the spot, and he watches as new ink blots mark the paper.

 

.

 

At the weekend, he goes up to Paige’s. She’s living in New Jersey with her boyfriend.

 

They sit in her room, with his box between them.

 

He opens the lid and shows her the letter. He watches the ghostly white wash across her face.

 

“I went to a business dinner, I thought this guy was a client, and then he gave me this,” he explains.

 

“Is it from--?” Paige gulps, unable to complete the sentence.

 

He nods, meeting her piercing gaze.

 

“What does it say?”

 

“What you would expect. Apologies, attempted explanations. Some anecdotes about their life.” A wry smile appears on his face. “Mom paints now, apparently.”

 

He shakes his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his head.

 

“It said in one of the letters, that they have written to you as well. So expect a clandestine meeting anytime now.”

 

“That, _this_ , it’s crazy,” Paige remarks, even as she remembers that this is far from the craziest situation she has found herself in.

 

He reaches inside his wallet and shows her the business card the man gave him.

 

“I was told to call this number, if I ever wanted to reach out. Tell the operator, _it’s a good time to invest in pharmaceuticals_. Now, that’s crazy.”

 

Paige listens in disbelief. Of course, their parents would find a way to come back into their lives.

 

“Do you want to?”

 

Henry frowns, then shakes his head.

 

“Do you?”

 

Paige shakes her head as well.

 

They both wonder if the other person is telling the truth.

 

.

 

He doesn’t know if it’s fortuitous or a curse. Or a manipulative attempt by his parents.

 

But two years later, his boss tells him they would like him to go to Moscow for a business trip. Him and a small team to pitch to a new client.

 

He asks Paige later if he should go.

 

“Do you want to go?” she questions.

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“Would you want to see them?” she rephrases.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel anymore,” he says with a sigh.

 

Paige reaches for his hand, gives him a reassuring smile.

 

“It’s ok if you do.”

.

 

Moscow is different, but not remarkably so. The buildings look different, there is a lot more snow and the language sounds foreign. But he’s sitting in a McDonald’s with his colleagues, drinking a coke and eating a BigMac. It puts a ceiling on _different_.

 

It’s his last evening here. He’s been going back and forth on calling the number. He tries to convince himself that he doesn’t want to. They don’t deserve it. And it’s easier this way, to never hear from them again.

 

But his mind replays the words in those letters. He’s reread them more times that he would have liked.

 

He tells himself, it’s not safe. He’s a fucking American citizen. He can’t meet with two former KGB spies. If they’re even telling the truth about quitting.

 

But then he remembers something Stan told him when he said he’s visiting Moscow. He didn’t think the CIA would be watching them. It’s been too long, it’s too expensive and the value too little.

 

He sits now, his mind trying to put it aside and focus on the office gossip being discussed around him.

 

Any resolution he had, shatters the moment his eyes drift to the opening door.

 

A woman in a grey coat walks in. Her frame thin. Her hair blonde but fading. Face tired with wrinkles and old age. He only catches her for a moment before she’s turned her back to him, walking up to the counter.

 

But there isn’t a doubt in his mind, who it is.

 

He keeps staring, eyes transfixed. He can’t decide if he wants her to turn and see him, or not.

 

“Hey man, what’s wrong?” he hears one of the guys say.

 

He shakes his head.

 

He can’t be here right now. He can’t do this, definitely not like _this_.

 

“I’m not feeling too great,” he says standing up. ‘I’ll see you guys later.”

 

.

 

He steps out of the McDonald’s and starts walking rapidly. He’s not thinking, simply moving. He keeps walking, taking turns without really registering them. At some point, he realises he’s on a deserted street, and he feels this tingle within him.

 

He attempts to force the feeling away, but his steps are slower now. In a daze, he reaches another corner. He stops and listens to the faintest sound of heels snapping against the concrete. He remembers footsteps coming assuredly up the stairs; the unmistakable sound of his mother’s boots.

 

It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does, but it’s still a startling jolt when he hears her voice.

 

“Henry?”

 

He could ignore her and walk away. He doesn’t think she would follow. But he’s here now, so what the hell?

 

He turns and the feeling of shock only amplifies. Nothing could prepare him for this.

 

Up close, she doesn’t look altogether that different. Her features are mostly the same, even if worn by age. It’s achingly familiar.

 

But he’s never quite seen his mother like this either, with such open vulnerability. The mournful eyes, the almost quiver of a lip.

 

“I thought you didn’t see me,” he says.

 

“I didn’t at first,” she tells him. “I saw you walking out. I wasn’t sure if it was you.” She pauses for a moment, “I had this feeling.”

 

“I guess you weren’t a spy for nothing,” he replies dryly.

 

An apologetic look comes across his mother’s face. She takes a step forward. She’s careful not to come too close; he’s grateful for that.

 

“We are _so sorry_ , Henry. For everything. For leaving you, for lying to you, everything,” she pleads.

 

He gives a reluctant shake of his head.

 

“I didn’t want to go to Russia,” he replies. He averts his gaze, looking down to the floor. He shakes his head again, and Elizabeth waits. Finally he tells her, voice destitutely broken, “You just left. All I got was that shitty phone call. No explanations, nothing. Instead you make Stan tell me my whole life was a lie.”

 

“It wasn’t all a lie,” Elizabeth immediately insists.

 

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

 

“We did lie to you about our jobs. But our family, none of that was a lie. You’re our kids, Henry. You and --” There’s a painful pause and a momentary intake of breath. “Your father and I love you, and Paige.”

 

He’s quiet for a long while. Elizabeth is patient, waits for him to speak. Henry keeps his gaze averted, looking to the distance, his mind turning inward.

 

“Come with me,” Elizabeth suggests when the silence is prolonged.

 

“What?”

 

“Your father will want to see you.”

 

“I don’t care about what he wants,” he snaps back sharply.

 

“Henry,” Elizabeth begins gently.

 

“I should go,” he interrupts.

 

“Your father wanted to get out a long time ago,” she reveals.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, confused.

 

“He wanted to quit our job for a long while. He even wanted to defect once, when we could have cut a deal, to keep our family together. But he didn’t because of me. And now...”

 

She leaves the sentence incomplete, unable to describe their predicament.

 

There’s a quiver in his lip when he speaks next.

 

“I can’t stay for long.”

 

.

 

They walk side by side, at a distance from each other with hands pushed deep inside their coat pockets. Neither sure of how best to fill the silence. She’s thankful the apartment isn’t far.

 

“You like McDonalds now?” Henry finds himself asking.

 

“No,” Elizabeth answers with a light laugh. “But your father likes it, so we have it from time to time.”

 

“You are here for work?” Elizabeth asks.

 

“Yeah,” Henry replies cautiously. “How did you know?”

 

“The suit and tie gave it away.”

 

“Oh.” His mind had been racing to more nefarious possibilities.

 

“What do you do?” his mother asks softly.

 

“I work on Wall Street,” he answers.

 

Elizabeth looks to him, a smile on her face.

 

“I’m proud of you,” she tells him.

 

He shrugs nonchalantly, trying to brush it aside. She stops him midstep, holding on to his arm.

He’s forced to look her in the eye.

 

“I mean it,” Elizabeth repeats.

 

His throat strickens.

 

This time, he nods in acquiescence.

 

.

 

Their apartment is on a nice street, clean and secluded. He watches as her mother greets the doorman in Russian, and then exchanges what sounds like curt words with two men who look like security guards. For a moment, she looks deadly.

 

She turns to check on him after. He’s staring wilfully, unable to hide his curiosity. A nervousness betrays her when she asks him if wants to take the stairs or the elevator.

 

He says he doesn’t mind.

 

They opt for the stairs.

 

.

 

He stands two steps back as his mother removes her keys from her purse.

 

Before putting the key in the lock, she looks once more to him. There’s a silent query written across her face. A last chance for him to change his mind. But he stays rooted to his spot and gives her the smallest of nods.

 

.

 

“Elizabeth,” he hears his father’s voice call out. The pit of nervousness in his stomach amplifies. His mother walks inside but he still doesn’t move. He can hear the clatter of cutlery and then footsteps growing louder.

 

“The salad’s ready,” he can hear him say. “You were gone a while.”

 

He can only see his mother’s profile from where he is. There’s a pensive expression stark on her face.

 

“Philip,” she begins and stops. She looks to Henry again, beckoning him to come in.

 

It’s too late to leave.

 

Henry takes a breath and walks inside, shutting the door behind him.

 

His father stands on the other side of the room, separated by a coffee table and an armchair.

 

To say he is shocked would be an understatement.

 

Philip gives a worried glance at Elizabeth, sharing a silent conversation as they always did.

 

“I’m in Moscow for work,” Henry volunteers. “We ran into each other.”

 

Philip absorbs the news wordlessly, the look of shock still on his face. Elizabeth watches him closely but doesn’t say anything.

 

Henry scans their apartment, noticing how much sparser it is than their old home. It’s different, but not so different to be jarring. His eyes settle on a series of canvases resting on one side. There is a small painting hanging nearby; a house on a suburban street that feels hauntingly like Falls Church.

 

“Did you paint that?” he asks his mother.

 

“Yes,” she answers.

 

“It’s good,” he says. After a moment, he adds, “Did you always paint?”

 

He could have never pictured his mother as an artist.

 

“No,” she replies slowly. “I started when we came back here.”

 

He frowns at her answer, unsure of whether it is true or not. He needs a moment to himself, he thinks.

 

“Could I use the bathroom?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” his father answers.

 

“I’ll show you where it is,” his mother adds. She walks him down a corridor and shows him the door.

 

He mumbles a thanks. From the corner of his eye he sees his father come stand by his mother, leaning in close and whispering, _what happened?_

 

.

  


They sit in the kitchen, cups of coffee shared between them. He didn’t really want it but it gave his hands something to hold on to, and for his eyes to focus on.

 

“I want you to know that your mom and I are so--”

 

“Mom already said all that. You don’t need to repeat it,” Henry cuts in coldly.

 

Philip purses his lips and quickly darts a look to his wife.

 

“If there’s _anything_ you want to ask us, you can,” he tries again.

 

“There’s one thing that never really made sense to me,” Henry tells them. “Why did you ever even have me and Paige in the first place? You were undercover spies for godsake, it was never going to be end well. How did you imagine any of this working out?”

 

“Henry,” Elizabeth says softly. “We never wanted for us to be separated.”

 

“So what, all of us moving to Russia, was that your best case scenario?” he retorts back angrily.

 

Elizabeth parts her mouth searching for the right words. She looks to Philip.

 

“You’re right, it was selfish of us,” Philip admits sadly.”I always wanted kids,” he tells Henry. “I know it must seem strange to you, but even though we were in America for a job, we were living our lives as well.”

 

He pauses, eyes flickering towards Elizabeth momentarily.

 

“Our family was real. We _wanted_ a family. You and Paige were the only good things in our lives,” he says emphatically.

 

Henry listens, his face a grimace and hand gripping tightly to the coffee mug.

 

“We are so sorry, Henry. We always thought we could keep our family together. But then you both grew up,” Elizabeth lets out a partial sob. “Your life was there.”

 

“Paige’s life was there too, and you were going to take her,” Henry points out.

 

Elizabeth swallows thickly, her posture growing rigid.

 

“She knew--”

 

“Because you told her, and not me.”

 

“Your sister pushed to find out. And when we told her,” Philip pauses, debating how to explaining this. “It did more harm than good. We didn’t want you to go through the same thing.”

 

Henry shakes his head half-heartedly.

 

“I didn’t, I _don’t_ know anything about you, my own parents. And my whole childhood, I can’t even -- it’s all ruined.”

 

Elizabeth wipes a hand past her right eye, inhales a sharp intake of breath. Philip leans forward, takes a moment to meet Elizabeth’s eye.

 

“We could show you a few things,” Philip volunteers

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“We never got to share this part of our lives with you. We could now.”

 

.

 

He walks into their bedroom with them. Sits cautiously on the edge of the bed as Elizabeth brings out a photo album. She hands it to Philip, who sits next to his son. He hands it delicately to Henry, an encouraging look on his face.

 

The album feels heavy in his hands, he toys with the edge, wondering if this is a good idea.

 

He glances up momentarily at his mother’s face, sees the desperately hopeful look on her face. He resists the inclination to leave and opens the album.

 

There’s a photo of a young man, smiling and dressed in a military uniform.

 

“That’s your grandfather,” Elizabeth says softly. “He died fighting in the War when I was two.”

 

Henry frowns in confusion for a moment. “World War Two,” he questions.

 

“Yes,” Philip supplies quietly.

 

Henry returns to the album, turns the page to see the image of a frail woman with a stern look on her face. His eyes dart between his parents.

 

“That’s my mother,” Elizabeth tells him.

 

“Paige said she met her,” Henry says.

 

“She did,” Elizabeth leans further into their bedside chest of drawers, fingers pressing against the wood. “My mother was dying, it was my last chance to see her. I took Paige with me. I wish I could have taken you too.”

 

Henry doesn’t say anything, instead a look of sadness overcomes his face. Elizabeth thinks, the likeness to his father is unmistakable.

 

Henry flicks through the pages in silence. There is a photo of Philip’s parents, and several more of a family he does not recognise. Henry’s eyes settle on one with Philip and another man; it must not have been taken too long ago, both the picture of stoicism.

 

“That’s your uncle,” Philip explains. Henry gives him a look of mild disbelief.

 

“ _All this time_ ,” he mutters beneath his breath. He sighs, absently flips the page again and then shuts it close.

 

“I should get back,” Henry tells his parents firmly.

 

.

 

He lingers awkwardly by the doorside, unable to quite make the final step out.

 

“I can’t forgive you,” Henry tells his parents.

 

His mother looks crestfallen but his father nods.

 

“We understand,” he tells him.

 

“Did you make this happen?” Henry finds himself asking. “Me coming to Moscow, the client…”

 

“No,” Elizabeth answers emphatically. “We didn’t have any idea you were going to be here.”

 

“But you did send that man to me?”

 

“What man?” Philip checks.

 

“About two years, this guy came to me pretending to be a businessman. He gave me letters from you, and instructions on how to contact you.”

 

He watches his parents glance at each other.

 

“We asked our people to get the letters to you and Paige,” Philip answers slowly. “We wanted to explain.”

 

“How many times did this man contact you?” Elizabeth asks.

 

“Just the once,” Henry tells them.

 

“Did he want anything from you?”

 

“No. He was just,” Henry huffs in agitation. “I don’t know. It was strange. He offered to get me some clients.”

 

A look of surprise comes across his parents faces.

 

“What did you say?” Philip asks this time.

 

“I said no, obviously. Why? Should I be concerned?” Henry presses.

 

“No, there’s nothing for you to worry about,” his mother reassures.

 

“I don’t want anyone to contact me like that, Paige too,” he says resolutely. “We can’t get caught up in all _this_ again. I shouldn’t even be here now.”

 

His mother looks ready to say something, but holds back. She looks heartbroken.

 

He’s forced to look away.

 

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he hears his father say.

 

He nods faintly in acknowledgement.

 

“I should really go,” he tells them once more. He holds his parents gaze, neither party quite ready to say goodbye.

 

“We will always be here,” his father says earnestly.

 

Henry gives a lonely smile, shrugs half-heartedly.

 

He’s mid-step through the door, when he finds himself stopping.

 

“It was good seeing you,” he tells them as a final parting. When his parents' eyes light up, he feels a tinge of happiness.

 

.

 

He learns when he is back in New York that their meeting with the client was successful. His boss tells him they want him to be the liaison. It’s a valuable responsibility. It also means more trips to Moscow.

 

He could insist they find someone else.

 

He decides to accept.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always lovely.


End file.
